Irreversible
by BuyingNickyShavingCream
Summary: What would have happened if Greg hadn’t been quite so lucky when stumbling into the crime scene in “Viva Las Vegas”?Newest chapter contains brief spoilers for Play with Fire
1. Chapter 1

**Irreversible**

_Summary: What would have happened if Greg hadn't been quite so lucky when stumbling into the crime scene in "Viva Las Vegas"?  
_

_ Author's Note: This was a quick story I hammered out while avoiding studying for finals. I'll be posting the rest in the next few days. It's rather gratuitous, but...I'm ok with that :-) All reviews are appreciated, if you feel so inclined.  
_

_Dedicated to the only person I know who would write me my very own whumping fic._

"Go around the back, Bobby," Brass ordered the second officer on the scene, stepping across the doorway with his gun held straight forward.

The officer nodded, heading around the side of the house. Brass continued into the foyer of the home. Grissom followed closely behind, his gun, which he didn't often carry, drawn at his side. Both noticed the silence within the house, the only sounds the echoing of their own feet on the wooden floor. The house was clean and ordered, to the point where even the floorboards looked recently polished.

"You got this address off a pill bottle?" the detective asked Grissom.

"Herpes," the entomologist announced matter-of-factly, distracted by the scene they had just entered. He wasn't as used to these situations as Brass was, considering the CSIs more often than not waited until a scene was clear to enter.

"Huh?"

"There was a prescription for valacyclovin," Grissom explained, "I cross-referenced the  
pharmacy logo."

The near-silence fell again, and Grissom began to doubt they would find the owner at home. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see a large mirror on the wall. He followed his own movements in it for a moment, as he continued to follow the carefully-moving detective further into the house.

As he turned towards Brass again, both men were startled by a clattering sound from the door frame. Brass turned, flipping his gun up towards the ceiling, but Grissom reacted purely on instinct. Barely thinking, he heard the shot before he saw the cause of the noise. The last thought he had before recognizing the figure slumping against the doorframe blood was that it had been quite awhile since he'd been to a crime scene with his gun at the ready. A chill came over him when he realized who his bullet had hit.

As his kit hit the smooth floor, Greg began to slide down towards the doorframe, his eyes locked on Grissom in shock. Grissom stared back with a similar disbelief, frozen in his spot as blood began to blossom on Greg's white shirt. The younger man's knees buckled and he hit the floor, landing awkwardly on his back. He tried to take a breath, and coughed.

"God, Sanders", Brass gasped, holstering his gun and brushing past Grissom towards the injured criminalist-in-training.

Grissom continued to stand rooted to the ground where he stood, unable to believe what had just transpired.

Greg stared dazedly up at Brass, who was now kneeling to press a hand against the wound on Greg's chest and staring back down worriedly. The detective pulled out his walkie with his free hand, murmuring to Greg to lay still.

"This is Detective Brass requesting immediate emergency assistance to 311 Sephill Road, officer down," he shouted harshly into the walkie, repeating his call as he watched the blood pool beneath his hand begin to soak more of Greg's shirt.

"Shit."

Both Grissom and Brass looked up to see the Bobby, the officer who had gone around the back of the house, standing above the three men. Clearly, he'd come around the front after hearing the gunshot.

Unlike Grissom however, Bobby's shock only lasted a moment. The well-trained officer quickly stripped off his jacket, and handed it to Brass.

Brass took his hand off the injury for a moment to replace it with the officer's jacket. The detective pressed harder on the jacket, hoping to still the wound flow, causing Greg's eyes to widen and he whimpered in pain.

Brass' call had finally broken Grissom from his shock, and he rushed forward to kneel by the young criminalist's head.

The first thing that he thought was that Greg had never looked younger. The former lab tech noticed his boss kneeling beside him, and his glassy eyes lazily floated over to meet the concerned blue eyes staring back down at him.

"Sor-sorry..." Greg choked, "late…."

He seemed to want to say more, but his words were cut off by a fit of choking, and Grissom felt something hard form in the pit of his stomach as blood flecked the young criminalist's lips.

"Don't worry about it, Greg," Grissom tried to soothe, but the words were awkward and clumsy. The entomologist had never been much for emotional situations, and the fear he felt for his young trainee had begun to overwhelm him.

And the reason for his injury…Grissom's eyes left Greg's for a moment as guilt washed over him.

He was pulled back to his CSI as he felt fingers clumsily brush his jacket. He looked back down at his charge to see Greg looking back at him fearfully, and put a hand to the younger man's forehead as it began to bead with sweat.

"Cold…" he wheezed around the blood in his mouth, and both older men noticed Greg beginning to shiver.

"I know…I know." Grissom brushed his hand through Greg's usually-wild hair without even thinking. It was a rather uncharacteristic move for Grissom, but he'd always had paternal feelings toward Greg, and those feelings had intensified when he'd agreed to let the labrat try working in the field. The childless man couldn't help but feel like one of his own was lying there, bleeding on the shiny wooden floor.

"Where the hell are those paramedics!" Brass hissed, continuing to hold the jacket over the wound, "It looks like it got him in the lung." Greg's dulling eyes moved to Brass, and began to slip shut.

"Come on kiddo, stay with us," Brass said loudly. The young criminalist opened his eyes a bit at that, but began to slide again.

Grissom knew how dangerous Greg's wound was. He tried not to think about whose gun the bullet had come from, and focused on the slipping man below him.

"Greg?" Grissom lightly slapped his face, "Come on Greg, you've gotta stay awake." Greg moaned, but managed to obey his supervisor.

"Hurts…" Greg forced out, between gasps for air. He arched his back slightly, and Brass and Grissom could see that his breaths were coming shallower by the second.

At that moment, the sound of sirens met their ears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter one...sorry I didn't have a chance to get back to you, but I read them all and they kicked my butt into gear to get some more done. This one's short, but your wait for chapter three won't be NEARLY as long. Hope you enjoy :-) **

Within moments of squealing into the driveway, the paramedics had made it to Greg's side.

"Sir," the male paramedic said as his female partner knelt by Greg's head. Grissom stared at the blood on the side of Greg's mouth that he swore hadn't been there a few seconds ago.

"Sir! I need you to move, sir."

The command came more forcefully this time, and Grissom felt a firm hand on his arm pulling towards the foyer of the house and away from Greg. He looked up and saw that the hand belonged to Brass.

"You're in the way Gil," Brass said gruffly. Grissom was too busy watching the action in the doorway to see the concern in the detective's eyes, but followed the arm that pulled him from his CSI.

Finally, after Greg had been transferred to a stretcher – rather hurriedly, Grissom noticed – the supervisor heard Brass saying his name.

"I'll…I'll go with him," Grissom managed to say, in a stronger voice than he would have thought possible. He began following the stretcher out to the ambulance when the hand on his arm became more forceful.

"Gil, you know we have to…take care of some things here first." Although the detective's typical New Jersey demeanor rarely seemed to radiate the emotion, Grissom knew him well enough to hear the discomfort in his voice. The slam of the ambulance doors outside on the driveway seemed to finally snap Grissom from his haze of disbelief.

He turned to Brass, who looked ready to say something else.

"I know…you need…here," Grissom said, awkwardly handing over his gun to the detective.

Brass had been waiting and took the gun carefully with a handkerchief, which Grissom would have never expected the detective to have in his pocket.

"Why don't you take a seat Gil?" the detective suggested, already pulling out his cell phone to make the necessary calls. Brass nodded to Bobby, whom Grissom had forgotten was even in the room. The young officer stood several feet from Grissom as Brass turned away.

"…officer involved…Sanders…on the way"

Grissom heard snippets of the phone conversation as he tried to process what had happened. Aside from his worry about Greg's welfare, he couldn't manage to figure out how he had made such an amateur mistake. As the reality of what happened continued to sink in, Grissom could feel something hard forming in the pit of his stomach.

He'd shot Greg.

Grissom had never liked carrying his gun, even to a scene. Sure, he'd almost had to use it before – saving Nick's life several years ago. But the supervisor had never gotten into this type of work to be on the front lines like the officers he worked with every day. Everyone who knew Grissom realized he was most content when handling the minute details of a crime scene, not waving around a firearm. While some CSIs like his younger colleagues Nick and Warrick never seemed to be without their guns, Grissom only brought his as an afterthought from time to time.

Sure, he'd completed the mandatory yearly firing range tests. Occasionally, when a case proved to be especially rough and the rarely emotional CSI's blood was boiling in anger or frustration, he'd head out to the range. But even with fairly accurate aim, the gun had never felt natural in Grissom's hand.

Perhaps this was why.

Footsteps shook him from his silent guilt. Brass was standing next to him, looking down with an unreadable expression.

"We're gonna go," Brass said.

"Right."

Officer Thompson looked a bit uncomfortable. He'd worked with Grissom a few times in the past at scenes; he knew there would be professional repercussions for Grissom's actions in addition to whatever happened to Greg. He followed his superior's lead, merely trailing Grissom out of the door.

"Bobby, take your car. I'll escort Dr. Grissom."

The young officer looked unsure for a moment, but followed orders.

Grissom and Brass walked silently to the SUV. Grissom took the passenger side in a non-verbal deference to Brass' obvious refusal to allow the CSI Supervisor to arrive at the station in the back of a squad car.

However thankful the CSI was for Brass' small gesture, it was the least of Grissom's worries at the moment. In his mind's eye, he kept seeing Greg lying on that floor below him, with blood rising from his mouth until it overwhelmed both of them.


	3. Chapter 3

Catherine didn't notice the needle on the speedometer edge up as she accelerated well past the speed limit. Her mind was elsewhere, spinning with the implications of what had happened less than an hour earlier.

Brass had called her from the car; he'd been slightly evasive, but honest. She had been in the trace lab during the call, and Hodges had raised his eyebrows at her reaction.

"Greg's been shot," the detective told her simply. "I was thinking you could head on over to Desert Palms and check his condition."

"Greg was shot! What happened?" Catherine asked, slightly confused. "And why didn't Grissom go with him to the hospital?" She knew Grissom had been at the scene; she'd seen Greg earlier, frantically racing around the lab to refill his kit. She'd tossed him some extra gloves, and after he mumbled a sheepish "thanks," she'd heard him mutter, "Grissom is gonna KILL me for being late."

"Grissom…is with me. He…is gonna be preoccupied for the next few hours, which is why I'm calling you. He can't go to the hospital right now, he's gonna have to be questioned."

Cath's heart sank. "Why?"

"Look Cath, I'd rather not talk about it over the phone like this. Greg didn't look so hot."

"Right, right, I'm on my way," she said, having already run out and grabbed her keys. She hung up on the detective, and searched for another member of her team to tell them what was going on.

She found Warrick bent over the table in the layout room, and he looked up as she entered the room. She interrupted him before he could open his mouth to greet her.

"Greg's been shot, I've gotta go to the hospital. Hold the fort down while I'm gone?"

Warrick's mouth dropped, speechless. "Uh…you got it boss. Keep us posted."

And with that, she was out the door and in the car, which is how she found herself tempting fate with excessive speed on the way to Desert Palms.

She bit her lip in indecision, and then flipped the switch to turn on the Denali's emergency lights.

Cath wasn't about to slow down.

As Catherine walked down the remarkably shiny tile floor, she remembered the last time she'd been to the hospital to see Greg. Her heart had been wrung with a different emotion then: guilt. She'd been the reason he was in a drug induced slumber, recovering from burns on his neck and back. He'd been remarkably lucky in the lab explosion. All those chemicals and all that glass…it was fortunate burns had been his ONLY problem.

He'd been ok then…she was sure he'd be ok now. She tried not to think about what had transpired at the scene. Brass' comments had led her to believe that perhaps she was no longer the only one in the lab feeling guilty about injuring Greg.

She marched up to the information desk, which was manned by a tired looking blonde woman.

"I'm looking for information on Greg Sanders?"

The receptionist looked down at her computer, typing in Greg's name.

"Ah yes…he just came in. I don't have any information on him yet, but I suggest you head up to surgery on the fourth floor," the woman said politely.

"He's in surgery then?" Catherine asked, nervous, but relieved that he was still alive.

"As I said, they'll be able to tell you more."

"Thank you," Cath said, spinning and heading to the stairs behind her. She didn't feel like waiting for an elevator right now; patience was not exactly a virtue present while someone she cared about was hurt.

Upon reaching the fourth floor, she was told by a nurse that Greg was, in fact, in surgery.

"Are you family?" she asked, eying Catherine.

"No, no, I'm his supervisor. But…I don't think he has any family in the area. Please, can you let me know how he's doing?"

The nurse paused for a moment, then sighed.

"I'll let the doctor know you're here. He'll be out to talk to you when he gets a chance."

Catherine also sighed, but in relief.

"I appreciate it," she told the nurse, genuinely thankful.

The nurse simply nodded, and gave her a hopeful smile.

"You can have a seat over there if you'd like to wait…it could be several hours though."

The nurse gestured to a seating area, and Catherine nodded.

"I'll wait," the CSI said, heading over to sit down.

She'd waited for him to wake up before. She didn't mind doing it again.

Over the next several hours, she'd tried calling Brass but only got his voicemail. She called Warrick to see how things were going and to see if he knew anything.

"Hey Cath," he said, sounding tired on the other end. "Any news on Greg?"

"No, I'm waiting for his doctor to come talk to me, but he's still in surgery."

There was silence on the phone for a moment, neither of them quite knowing what to say.

"Listen," she said, her mouth suddenly dry, "did you see Brass or Grissom?"

Warrick cleared his throat.

"Yeah, Cath, they're at the station."

He was silent again, and Cath realized her earlier worries had been on target.

"What's going on with Grissom?" she asked.

"I…I just can't believe it," Warrick said, the disbelief in his voice reflective of his words. "I mean, you and I know how Griss carries his gun about as often as--"

"Grissom shot Greg," Cath interrupted, the words sounding dirty in the air.

"Well…that's what it looks like. I mean, they're questioning him right now. Ecklie's in there…it doesn't look good, Cath."

Catherine didn't want to hear more.

"Look Warrick, the doctor should be coming out soon. You guys ok without me right now?"

"Oh sure," the younger CSI said, clearly relieved to be talking about something unemotional: work. "Nick and Sara are out taking care of that DB on Industrial, and I'll be here awhile going through this surveillance from our case. Don't worry about us….but keep us posted on Greggo?"

"Sure thing…later."

Both hung up, and Catherine leaned back in her chair, suddenly feeling very tired and confused.

She didn't even know where on his body Greg had been shot, or how bad it was. Cath looked down at her watch and realized she'd been waiting for two hours… and still no sign of Greg's doctor. She sighed, slumping against the wall behind her.

Poor kid. Although she knew the explosion wasn't the main reason Greg had wanted to get into the field and escape the lab, she was hoping he'd have better luck out there.

And he'd been doing pretty well in the field, all things considered. Sure, he'd made a few mistakes, but Cath knew he was holding his own after being thrown into the middle of a very experienced team and expected to perform. Despite his obvious nervousness, he stuck to his guns.

She closed her eyes for what seemed like a moment before she was startled by someone before her.

"Ma'am? Ma'am?"

She jerked in her seat, realizing she'd drifted off to sleep.

"I'm sorry…" she started, standing up to greet the doctor.

"Quite alright," the doctor smiled gently. "You're the one who was asking about Mr. Sanders?"

"Yes," Catherine replied, feeling more at ease. Greg's doctor was a woman in her mid 40s from Catherine's guess, her hair slightly graying from its general brown coloring.

"I'm Dr. Reichert, Mr. Sanders' doctor. You're his supervisor?" she asked.

"Yeah," Catherine said, realizing she hadn't asked Warrick about contacting Greg's family.

"Well, we normally require family to be here for this stuff, but since you're his supervisor and this happened in a work setting, I'll give you an update," the doctor said, not unkindly. "Why don't you have a seat?"

Catherine sat, anxious for news.

"Mr. Sanders is stable right now, most importantly. We're going to keep a close eye on him. The bullet missed most of his organs, but did a number on his left lung. He's on a respirator right now, and I expect he'll be on it for awhile. But we were able to repair most of the damage, and barring unforeseen complications, I think he'll recover nicely."

Catherine breathed loudly. She hadn't known he'd been hit in the chest.

"Can I see him?"

"He's in recovery right now," Dr. Reichert started, "but we'll let you know once he's been moved to his room and you can see him."

"Thank you, doctor," Catherine said, shaking the other woman's hand.

As the doctor walked away, she sat down to make some phone calls.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Dealing with criminals for several years in the City of Sin, Detective Vega had become quite accustomed to whatever strangeness a suspect would bring into the station with him. However, he couldn't help but stare at the entirely still, folded hands of the man sitting across from him. No trembling, no perspiration.

Grissom was perfectly calm, and he'd just shot one of his subordinates.

Vega would have been more disturbed by Grissom's behavior, but he'd worked with the man several times over the years, and knew there was more than one person in the office who knew how to keep his cool and shove down emotions in a crisis. Grissom was well practiced at hiding how he felt.

The detective cleared his throat.

"Well…you know how this goes," he said, somewhat awkwardly. "Go ahead and just…start at the beginning?"

Grissom nodded, and began.

It had been an hour since the doctor had told her Greg was going into recovery. Despite her worry for the young CSI, Catherine found herself dozing, head back against the wall in the hospital waiting room. She jerked awake when she heard purposeful steps in the hall walking towards her.

She opened her eyes, and a nurse was standing before her, with a gruff expression, but kind eyes.

"Ms Willows? Mr. Sanders is settled in his room if you'd like to see him."

Catherine stood, offering a weak smile of thanks as the nurse led her towards his door.

"He had a bad reaction to the anesthesia, and in his condition, we wanted to keep a closer eye on him before we brought him to his room," the nurse offered by way of apology for Catherine's wait. She led the CSI away from the private rooms, and towards the ICU.

Catherine noticed, and opened her mouth to ask how bad the reaction was, when they turned the corner, and she saw the young CSI through the glass, motionless in his hospital bed.

Greg wasn't entirely motionless; the respirator kept his chest rising and falling in a mechanical rhythm that was entirely unnatural. His eyes were not only closed, but looked sunken and almost bruised. Despite the obvious movement of his chest, she couldn't help but notice how corpse-like he looked.

The nurse was still standing behind Catherine, used to giving people a moment. Once the initial shock was over, the nurse spoke up.

"Dr. Reichert is confident about his condition, but didn't want to take chances. We needed to keep him sedated to keep him on the respirator, but wanted to watch him closely following his reaction."

Catherine didn't speak for several more moments.

"Is it alright if I just sit with him?" asked the more senior CSI, her maternal instincts front and center after looking down over the helpless younger CSI. She often felt like the mother of the team; sometimes comforting and encouraging, sometimes telling her 'children' what they didn't want to hear. At times like this, she felt it more than ever.

The nurse nodded.

"Nurse's station is right across the hall if you need us," she grunted, and walked out.

Catherine spotted a chair in the corner and pulled it close to the left side of Greg's bed. She tenderly touched his lifeless hand, careful to avoid the painful looking IV protruding from the back of his left hand. Her fingers curled around his, carefully taking a firm grip. She squeezed his hand, then looked to his face.

No reaction. Intellectually, she knew that between the injury itself and all the sedatives they had pumped into him, Greg wasn't going to be waking up for awhile. But that knowledge didn't prevent the intense unease she felt at seeing the normally lively CSI lying there motionless and silent. His normally wild hair was matted to his head, still damp from the brief once-over he'd been given by a nurse with a sponge bath after his surgery to wash the blood from his face.

Catherine moved her free hand to his forehead, stroking back his hair, which she noticed was a more 'conservative' color than it used to be. He'd been trying so hard since Grissom offered him a chance at being a CSI to look more professional. She'd watched his wardrobe change, his personality tone down a bit, and now she noticed one more change he'd made.

He was showing promise though, Catherine thought. All those hours of analyzing the minutest samples of DNA had not only given him a mind with intricate attention to detail, but a fire of excitement for the job that she hadn't seen in years. Sure, the more veteran CSIs loved their jobs, but she had forgotten what the job looked like through the eyes of a rookie until Greg had moved into the preliminary stages of becoming a CSI.

Now she wondered if he'd wake up wishing he'd never left the lab, and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Greggo."


	5. Chapter 5

**Five Days Later**

Grissom was sitting at Greg's bedside, and the young CSI looked only slightly less pale then he had since his admittance to the hospital. Although he'd been spending time each day since the incident visiting Greg, neither the updated Entomology Textbook in his lap nor the Cubs-Reds game on the room's television could keep his attention. He was consumed with guilt over what had happened. Then the Reds' Joey Votto hit a home run at the bottom of the ninth, causing the defeat of his beloved yet hapless Cubs. Could this day get any worse?

Suddenly, he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. Greg lifted his arm weakly, but noticeably.

"Greg?" Grissom asked, turning towards his employee. Sure enough, Greg's eyes were opening partially, and for the first time since his shooting, he appeared somewhat aware of his surroundings.

"I'll get a nurse," Grissom said, grabbing the call button. Then he smilled. "We're so happy you're back with us, Greg."

**THE END**


End file.
